


all this talk of getting old (is turning me on, my love)

by Mirror_ball



Category: Mewgulf, เกลียดนักมาเป็นที่รักกันซะดีๆ | TharnType: The Series (TV), เกลียดนักมาเป็นที่รักกันซะดีๆ | TharnType: The Series (TV) RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, What Did I Just Write, shower scene reimagined, tharn and type being their usual horny selves, you will find no semblance of plot here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:06:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27620432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirror_ball/pseuds/Mirror_ball
Summary: Type is tense and Tharn is determined to help him take his mind off work-related problems with his... love and care.ORTharnType shower scene reimagined.
Relationships: Mew Suppasit Jongcheveevat/Gulf Kanawut Traipipattanapong, Tharn Thara Kirigun/Type Thiwat Phawattakun
Comments: 20
Kudos: 235





	all this talk of getting old (is turning me on, my love)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MademoiselleParis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MademoiselleParis/gifts).



> Written as a surprise birthday gift for [MademoiselleParis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MademoiselleParis). All the best, darling! 
> 
> Honestly, I don't even know how this happened. I blame Tharn and Type's ever-present horniness. Just so you know, it's plotless porn through and through so proceed at your own risk.
> 
> Title comes from the lyrics to "The Drugs Don't Work" by The Verve (though cheesily altered).

The truth is, all that talk of growing old together is everything but sexy. Cute, sure. Endearing, absolutely. Cheesy, well, that’s a given—after all, it’s Tharn we’re talking about. So why, Type wonders as he feels his breath hitch in his throat, is he getting so turned on right now? Tharn’s nose is almost brushing against his own, eyes darting over his face with that specific type of hunger he knows is reserved solely for him, and quite predictably, Type finds himself wishing for that smirking mouth to just smash against his without further ado.

Tharn knows it, he can read Type like an open book, always has, but he’s not about to indulge him so easily, not without him working for it. Which, well, is a trademark dick move of Tharn’s, and one that he secretly prides himself on. Nothing has ever proven as effective as denying Type what he evidently wants in a given moment. Nothing. And despite the abundance of insults and cursing this will doubtlessly lead to, Tharn is more than ready to postpone Type’s (and his own) pleasure, if it means that he’ll have Type all worked up and writhing against the slippery tile, desperate and itching for him. Type is going to beg, and God, is Tharn thriving on the mere prospect.

Type’s fingers curl around Tharn’s shoulder, fingertips press into the muscle, hard enough for his nails to dig deep into his skin, leave little, red, crescent-shaped marks wherever they reach. He’s tense. From exhaustion, from stress, from Tharn teasing him like the fucking prick he is. His hand clamps down on Tharn’s shoulder like a vice, urging him to stop playing around and get on with it, for God’s sake. The wordless plea is completely lost on Tharn it seems, the smirk on his stupid(ly handsome, goddammit) face morphing into a shit-eating grin, and Type can’t help but huff in exasperation. Fucking asshole.

“Anything you want?” Tharn has the audacity to ask, like he doesn’t know exactly what Type wants right now, what he _needs_. He’s backing him up against the wall as he speaks, and Type can tell he’s having a blast doing it. “Anything on your mind besides work now, huh?”

Well, duh, it would be quite peculiar if there wasn’t with how Tharn is obviously testing his patience now. Hand dipping to the inside of Type’s thigh, he kneads at the flesh there, relishing the stutter of Type’s hips, the quiver of his parted lips, the desire swimming in his half-lidded eyes. Fuck, Tharn’s standing so close to him, so close he feels the warmth radiating from him and his breath wafting over the side of his neck as he leans in that much closer, causing Type’s skin to break into goosebumps. “Tell me, Type.”

Type’s lips part to release a silent gasp as Tharn’s palm slides up a few inches before coming to a halt just below his groin. God, he’s well aware of what kind of game Tharn is playing with him, knows what he’s trying to accomplish. But the thing is, Type can get quite competitive, too. If years upon years of playing football taught him anything, it’s that he loves the taste of victory, so sweet on his tongue, so addicting. And really, between the two of them, it’s definitely not him who’s an insatiable, overeager, sex-crazed horndog. 

“Use your words, Type,” Tharn says, _demands_ , and damn, is that commanding tone sexy on him. Type hates it, hates how little it takes for Tharn, even after seven years, to turn him into a needy mess, make him admit defeat and drop to his knees in surrender (sometimes literally, but that’s beside the point). It’s too early for that, though, too early to give up and give in, and so he just bites into the inside of his cheek and returns Tharn’s penetrating gaze with as much cheekiness as he can muster, chest heaving from the intensity of emotion, the ever-growing tension, the proximity. It’s then that Tharn’s eyes drop to his mouth, tongue darting out to swipe along his own upper lip as if in preparation for a great feast, and fuck, victory be damned, he’s had enough.

“You want to know what’s on my mind?” Type raises his brows in enquiry.

Instead of presenting him with an answer, Tharn lets his hand vacate the previous spot near his groin in favor of sliding over the swell of his ass and eventually settling on his hip just to press Type further into the cold tile. 

Type shoots him a glare that disappears altogether behind his closed eyelids when Tharn draws in closer, so close all space that was between them mere seconds ago is now reduced to near-nothingness. Caging him in, Tharn relishes the way Type bucks his hips forward in search of more friction the moment their erections brush together briefly. It won’t take long, Tharn reckons. “Yes, Type. Tell me everything. Don’t leave out a single detail.”

“Fuck,” Type just hisses instead. He rolls his hips once again, shamelessly rutting against Tharn’s toned stomach. What a fucking dick. “ _You’re_ on my mind, you asshole. You, as you take me against this very wall. Happy?”

“Fairly,” Tharn brings his face that much closer to Type’s, and shit, Type hates that smug expression of his, the one that takes over his features whenever he’s sure he’s getting what he’s after. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific than that.”

Dear fucking— Argh, fine, _fine_ , Type knows where this is going, knows Tharn can drag it out for hours if Type doesn’t comply and just give in. Only his own pleasure suddenly seems less of a priority than denying Tharn the satisfaction. Two can play at this game as far as he’s concerned. 

“More specific how?” He cocks an eyebrow in that typical kind of way, making sure to punctuate the last word with a particularly jerky roll of his hips. Their cocks slide together sloppily, and Type smirks with delight, watching Tharn’s eyes go a shade darker and feeling his already vice-like grip on his hipbone tighten considerably. “Am I not being clear enough?”

“You little brat,” Tharn all but growls before leaning his forehead heavily against Type’s. His hand tangles in Type’s wet hair and pulls just so, just enough to accentuate Tharn’s want, Tharn’s urgency, Tharn’s fucking need to have his man wrapped around his cock, and fast. “What do you want me to do Type? I won’t know if you don’t tell me.”

They’re practically panting into each other’s mouths at this point, hips grinding together with abandon, fingers digging into wet skin, and Type knows all too well how this is going to play out, knows he’s in for a treat.

“You know exactly what I want, Tharn.”

“Do I, now?” Tharn’s lips brush against Type’s, the faintest of touches. He’s teasing Type so much tonight, God, Type’s going out of his mind even thinking about what’s to come. All of a sudden, the grip on his hip disappears altogether as Tharn drags his hand over his outer thigh and reaches behind him, stopping only when he has his fingers splayed over the soft skin of his ass cheek. 

“How would I know if you’d rather have me here,” he continues, tongue flicking out to lick along the curve of Type’s lower lip, as if to specify which spot he meant exactly. Then, pulling away a fraction, he dips his index finger into the crack of Type’s ass and gently drags it down until the fingertip catches on his entrance a tiny bit. “Or here.” 

Shit, shit, it’s both, Type admits to himself shamefully, and it’s all he can do not to let out a loud, obscene moan as he feels his cock twitch and release a spurt of pre-come at Tharn’s words. The latter’s hand untangles itself from his hair and slides down to the back of his neck, fingers curled around the base as they apply a squeeze hard enough to indicate Tharn’s patience is wearing thin. And boy, does Type hope it runs out completely.

“Yes,” he resorts to gasping, because forming a coherent reply suddenly feels like an insurmountable challenge. It’s crazy how even after seven years Tharn affects him so much, how he can make him writhe and moan and pant with his words alone and without so much as putting a single finger on him, much less in him. 

“Yes what, Type?”

“Anything,” Type growls through gritted teeth, “Anything, whatever you want, just get the fuck on with it!”

God, that dirty mouth of his. Tharn could think of a thousand ways to silence it, only he secretly loves how Type loses himself enough to declare he’s willing to go with whatever Tharn wants, loves how he’s so eager to take what Tharn’s ready to give, how he’s so trusting. If someone had told him seven years ago that Type, that foul-mouthed, homophobic hothead, would one day not only accept his advances but also initiate physical contact _and_ demand sexual favors from him, well, he would have laughed right in their face and deemed them insane.

“Don’t ask for what you can’t handle.” A corner of Tharn’s mouth rises in a lopsided smile as he extends one of his arms to the side and reaches for the body wash sitting snugly between the lotion and the shampoo in the shower basket. Squeezing a generous amount into his palm, he rubs his hands together to lather them up, then lets one of them reassume its position on Type’s ass. This time around, when Tharn’s finger slides between Type’s ass cheeks, it’s not just to tease. 

The thumb slips in easily, partly owing to the suds and partly to their slow lovemaking on the couch a mere half an hour ago. Type makes a stifled noise, something between a surprised gasp and a pleased groan, testament to a growing arousal. Tharn probably doesn’t even need to stretch him now, he could just sink into that delicious heat without wasting any time at all. Even so, the only reason why he yanks his thumb out is to replace it with his index and middle fingers, cramming both of them in with little to no resistance. God, Type’s so wet still, the remnants of Tharn’s come from before sticky around his fingers, and there’s something about feeling himself both inside of Type and dripping out of him, something so inexplicably rewarding he knows for a fact he’ll never get tired of it in his life.

It’s when he has his fingers knuckle-deep inside of Type that the latter lets out a breathy moan, grinding down on them as best he can, and for a brief moment, Tharn considers dropping to his knees and just plunging his tongue right into the tight space between his fingers to lick him good, eat him out until he’s a combination of quivering limbs and drawn-out groans, until he’s coming and coming in abundant spurts, untouched. One glance down at his own leaking cock is more than enough for him to dismiss the idea completely. 

“So wet for me,” he leans in instead, panting into Type’s neck. “So willing, shit.”

“Tharn,” Type’s voice comes out as a whine. Never in a million years did he think he would find dirty talk sexy rather than embarrassingly cringy, and yet there he is. It’s lowkey unnerving how Tharn seems to know him better than he knows himself.

“Do you like it?” Tharn asks, then scrapes his teeth down the side of Type’s throat. “Fucking yourself on my fingers like that? Do you want me to keep going? Finger you until you’re coming just from a couple digits buried in your ass?”

As if to give Type a taste, he curls his fingers deep inside of him, rubs against the sensitive bundle of nerves that never fails to drive him insane, and watches him writhe against the tiles, eyes squeezed shut and lips parted. Tharn hasn’t even properly started yet and Type already looks so far gone, so wrecked it takes everything Tharn has to not spin him around and shove his dick right up his ass. 

“Tharn, you son of a bitch, just—”

“You said, anything,” Tharn smirks, tips of his fingers still pressed against Type’s prostate, rubbing relentlessly. “You said, whatever I wanted.”

Brows drawn together in a frown, Type huffs exasperatedly and reaches down to wrap his hand around himself only to have it batted away. God, how did they even go from the tooth-rotting let’s-get-old-together shit to _this_? “That’s not what I want, though.”

“Tharn, fuck—” Type spits, then drops his head back against the tile as Tharn slowly drags his fingers out and thrusts them right back in, not missing the target. He does it again and again, and only stops when Type goes completely boneless, slumping against his chest with a full-body shudder.

“That good?” Tharn teases as he gently presses Type back into the wall with a hand on his hip. Fingers of his other hand unmoving inside him, he pushes his face into the crook of Type’s neck, tonguing at the wet skin. 

“Yes,” Type sighs, then reconsiders, “No. Not enough.”

“Greedy.”

And he is tonight, he really is. He’s rarely so eager for the second round so soon, or should Tharn say, rarely so evidently eager. He must be under a lot of stress, Tharn muses. Perhaps he should actually talk to Type in lieu of using sex to help him take his mind off work-related issues. It does look pretty serious these days if he’s honest. But then he remembers it’s Type, the man with whom every other confrontation eventually ends in a fight, and Tharn would rather have that dirty little mouth of his swallowing his cock than spilling all those hurtful words that are bound to gnaw at him for days to come. Which perhaps doesn’t make for a symptom of a particularly healthy relationship, but really, between Type’s temper and Tharn’s excessive determination, they’ve never really been a picture-perfect couple to begin with.

A wriggle of Type’s ass around his fingers pulls him right out of his deliberations. They’ll talk. But God, surely not tonight. 

“Need anything?” Tharn asks, nipping at the underside of Type’s jaw and pressing his lower half into his boyfriend’s. The feeling of their cocks rubbing together is straight-up overpowering, so much so that it sends a jolt of pleasure right to his very core and makes him want to simply get a hold of both their dicks and watch them alternately disappear in and peek out of his fist as he draws them both closer and closer to completion. Damn, wouldn’t that be nice. His painfully stiff cock would certainly agree.

Ah, fuck it. He pulls out his fingers to a loud groan of protest and a light punch to his bicep. Doesn’t matter, it’ll still be worth it in the end. He hopes to God Type will share the sentiment. 

It’s not a few seconds later that he has his hands covered with a fresh layer of suds, the scent of orange and bergamot both soothing and energizing as it wraps around him like the softest of blankets. Without so much as a word of warning, he closes his fist around both of their cocks and gives them an experimental stroke. The glide of his soapy hand on their lengths is easy and effortless, and the wet sound it generates, combined with a half-sob that tumbles though Type’s lips—the sweetest melody to Tharn’s ears. 

Type’s arms loop around Tharn’s neck in no time at all, and he pulls him in for a kiss so desperate it leaves them both breathless and panting into each other’s mouths within seconds. God, Type loves the way Tharn kisses him, always has, but he especially likes it toward the end of the day, when Tharn’s stubble scratches his cheeks and chin, leaves patches of reddened skin behind, testament to their hastiness and passion. He loves how he swirls his tongue around Type’s, how he sucks on it, making those slurpy sounds that used to weird him out back in his junior year of college and that turn him on so fucking much now. But he loves it best when the kissing is accompanied by the touching, and damn if Tharn isn’t well aware and currently using it to his advantage.

Although for the record, by touching he didn’t necessarily mean Tharn suddenly shoving two fingers back into him in one go.

“Shit,” Type snarls and throws his head back against the wall for at least the second time tonight, which unavoidably results in a broken kiss and a budding headache. “Tharn, no—”

“No?” Tharn quirks a brow at him, not that Type could see it with how Tharn’s forehead is resting against his temple, lips brushing the shell of his ear as he speaks. “Are you saying that I should stop?”

Type’s nails dig into his shoulder so hard they could draw blood if they weren’t this blunt. Why in the world is he with this jerk again? “Tharn! You know that’s not what I meant. Just—”

“Just what?” Tharn sucks Type’s earlobe into his mouth, crooks his fingers inside him, relishes the hitch in his breath. God, Type looks so beautiful like that, all pliant and helpless for a change, blushing from his chest to his neck to the tips of his ears, no trace of his usual stubbornness left. So perfect for Tharn. Always so perfect.

“Tharn, just—please.”

“There you go,” Tharn all but grins. “So pretty, begging like that.”

A retort dies on Type’s lips the moment Tharn’s hand around the combined volume of their cocks picks up the tempo, while his fingers withdraw a couple inches before making their way back in with ease. Fuck, _fuck_ , it’s too much now, too good, and Type can’t decide whether to push back onto the fingers or fuck into the tightness of Tharn’s fist. Hips undulating with the rapidly increasing speed, he drags his nails down Tharn’s chest as he chases the approaching orgasm, and God, he’s so close, almost there, just a little more—

“Tharn, no!” he wails brokenly when Tharn stills all movement, grip tight around the base of their combined lengths, and fingers—albeit buried deep—unmoving.

“I’ve got you, Type. Let me make it last longer. I’ll make it feel so much better for you.”

Better his ass. Type knows that tone all too well, has heard it a million times before. Even though it’s supposed to be soothing and placating, all it manages to do is fuel his anger. Who is he to decide for the both of them? For him? “Fuck you, Tharn!”

“Dream on,” Tharn’s smug smile is really getting on Type’s nerves right now, goddammit. He was so close, _so close_. “Leave the fucking to me.”

“That’s what I meant to do at first but you’re clearly not up to the task.”

In hindsight, that might not have been the best choice of words, and Type realizes that belatedly when the fingers inside him start moving again in retaliation, wriggling, rubbing over his prostate over and over and God, if this goes on, he’ll end up dissolving into sobs or fucking exploding. Or exploding into sobs, whatever, don’t expect him to make sense in such a disastrous state.

It’s not like they haven’t done that before. They have, and not once, but never when he had to actually use his strength to keep himself upright. He enjoys it usually, the long build-up, the anticipation, the bittersweet disappointment that goes on and on until there’s none left, until it’s replaced by the pure bliss of release. And if he’s honest, he’s secretly enjoying it now, at least the part of him that’s dark and unexplored, the part of him that Tharn seems to be more familiar with than he is himself. The part of him that trusts Tharn through and through.

The next wave crashes against the dam much like the one before, and Type’s knees almost give way under his weight. They’re wobbling as Tharn drops tiny little kisses over his shoulder and neck, then all over his face, fingers retracted a little to avoid overstimulation, although truth be told, it might be a tad too late for this particular safety measure. 

Making sure the momentum is lost, Tharn unwraps his hand from around their pulsing lengths and gently removes his fingers. He tries to pay no mind to the piteous sound that slips past Type’s lips at the loss of contact—Tharn’s in agony too, alright? (He decides to conveniently ignore the fact that, unlike Type, he has brought it upon himself.)

Honestly though, fuck. He’s so hard it literally hurts, and if he doesn’t do anything about it soon, he’s fairly sure he’s going to lose his mind. Luckily Type appears to be in a similar frame of mind, if his bruising grip on both his biceps is anything to go by. 

“Tharn,” he says, _pleads_ , tone fairly gentle, hopeful, even if laced with slight irritation. 

“I’ve got you, Type.” 

Albeit a reassurance, it brings Type no comfort at all. He’s heard Tharn say it once today already, and where did it bring him? Definitely not to his release, that’s where.

“Not sure you know what that implies.”

“Oh you bet I know.” 

With ill-concealed urgency, Tharn retrieves the body wash again, lathers up his hands then closes one around his cock to give it a few strokes, consequently covering it with a thick layer of suds. Definitely not as efficient as lube, but with how Type’s already stretched wide and good, it should suffice.

Reaching for Type’s wrists, he applies a gentle tug to both, and guides Type’s arms around his neck. As much as he wants to just press Type face first into the wall and sink into his ass, he’s determined to make tonight’s experience especially enjoyable for him. And to achieve that, he needs to patiently build up his orgasm anew, slowly, agonizingly so, if need be. Whatever it takes to lift the weight off Type’s shoulders.

His slippery hand glides over Type’s skin, traces a path of soap suds down the side of his upper body until it reaches his outer thigh, then slips to his backside and applies a squeeze. His leaking cock twitches at the silent moan the action earns him. 

“Type,” he sighs, grinding into him again, one last time, scout’s honor. The pressure of Type’s cock against his own has him almost cursing. “I’ll make you feel so good tonight, so good you’re not gonna want me to stop.”

Another roll of his hips follows, and another, fuck, he can’t help it with how Type melts into it, how his hips jut out to meet Tharn’s mid-thrust. Promises given to self can be broken with no real repercussions, can’t they? Yes, yes they can, he decides as he captures Type’s lips in a deep kiss, tongue gliding alongside Type’s, much like his cock does over Type’s stomach. 

The gasp of his name ends up muffled by his own lips. He knows, yes, he knows he can’t drag it out forever, tempting though it is. Sliding his hands down Type’s back, he positions them under the curve of his ass and then—

“Up,” he pants into Type’s mouth, heart swelling with pure, unadulterated joy when Type simply obeys and lets himself be hoisted up, no questions asked. His legs immediately circle around his hips, feet locking together right below Tharn’s ass. Like he saw that coming. Like it’s second nature.

Which, in all truth, might well be the case. God knows how many times Type has let Tharn manhandle him like that, do whatever he pleased, whatever he needed. Fuck, his boyfriend is really too good to him. On a rare occasion, when he’s not fuming with anger.

And this very moment might be one of those rare occasions because he’s certainly not fuming now. From admiring how the muscles of Tharn’s arms flex under the layer of wet skin, to coaxingly digging his fingers into Tharn’s back, to trying (and failing) to roll his hips against him in search of much needed friction, Type keeps himself happily occupied with a plethora of other activities. That is, until the hands under his backside pull his ass cheeks apart, stretching him open, and all thoughts besides one flee his mind.

He can barely refrain from squirming in Tharn’s hold when the latter’s words echo off the shower cabin walls, and go straight to his cock. “You’re gonna have to help me out here, princess. I’m missing a hand.”

Type needs no further instructions. With a quivering hand, he reaches down to get a hold of Tharn’s dick and guide it to where they both need it, relishing the hiss that escapes through Tharn’s teeth at the direct contact. 

It’s Type’s turn to hiss when the head catches on his entrance just so, just enough for him to feel the slight stretch around the leaking tip. But it’s not until the first inch pushes through the taut ring of muscle that he sucks in a sharp breath through his nose, tightens his grip on the base of Tharn’s cock unintentionally, breaks into shivers. God, it feels so good, almost too good in fact, and Tharn’s not even halfway in yet.

There are bound to be halfmoon-shaped marks on Type’s ass tomorrow from how hard Tharn’s nails are digging into the soft flesh there as he sinks into the tight, wet heat inch by agonizing inch. He’s so hard and horny it takes everything he has to keep himself from snapping his hips and fucking all the way in. The soap surely has nothing on lube, and yet Tharn is surprised to observe he slides in fairly easily, only meeting slight resistance as Type clamps—quite deliberately, he’s sure—around his cock. Must be all that fingering _and_ the couch sex earlier. 

When he finally bottoms out, he has to greet his teeth and keep still for a few moments, resisting the urge to just let go and come right then and there. He feels his arms tremble, be it from excitement or the effort of holding Type up (or, most likely, a blend of both), and he wonders how long he will last, both in terms of muscle strength and, well, other sort of strength. The mental kind.

“Tharn,” a whiny moan pulls him right out of his musings, but it’ a wriggle of Type’s ass that drags obscenities out of his throat. Fuck. Type’s going to be the death of him. “Tharn, what the hell are you waiting for?”

Well, perhaps for his desperate need for immediate release to subside a little, how about that? Okay, okay, never mind, he’s got this, let’s just—

The first thrust sends them both groaning. Type’s arms fly back up to curl around Tharn’s neck as he arches off the wall and into Tharn’s body, and clings to him for dear life, eager and willing and so, so beautiful. The second snap of Tharn’s hips knocks Type’s breath out of him, Tharn can tell by the way Type’s heels press into the back of his thighs while his mouth opens around a broken, choked out groan, and it’s not long before Tharn loses his composure and starts drilling into Type with abandon, pushing him further and further into the wet, slippery tiles with every single thrust.

Lost in the moment, Tharn savors the numerous gasps and moans that bounce off the bathroom walls, those little mewling sounds Type makes whenever they fuck, and it barely registers when Type unloops one of his arms from around Tharn’s neck and trails his hand down Tharn’s chest only to wrap it around his own cock. Tharn watches him jerk himself off for a few seconds, as if hypnotized by the view, then dives into the crook of his neck to suck a mark into his smooth, sun-kissed skin.

“You feel so good Type,” he pants against the side of Type’s throat, “Always so fucking good for me, so tight, no matter how much I stretch you, fuck.”

“Tharn—”

He feels Type tightening around him like a burning liquid vice, feels him going stiff and tense against him, feels him teetering on the brink of a climax, and God, he’s going out of his mind just watching him come undone, watching him break to pieces because of him, _for_ him.

“I could stay in you for hours,” he rasps out, the last word punctuated with a sharp snap of his hips. He licks along the line of Type’s shoulder and nearly growls at the way Type trembles against him. “Just fuck you repeatedly and watch you come over and over, watch you take it all without a word of protest, because you would, I know you would, fuck, such a good boy.”

It’s these words that prove to be the final push, and without any warning, Type is coming so hard he can barely think straight, ropes and ropes of white hitting his chest and tummy as he's convulsing in utmost pleasure. Slumping against the tile with the grip around himself unyielding, he continues to take Tharn’s cock like the good boy Tharn thinks he is, eyes fluttering shut and soft little _ah’s_ escaping him with every thrust. And God, if Tharn wasn’t about to come already, this very view would make him hard in seconds.

As it is, it only helps to tip him over the edge, and with one last shove, he’s releasing into Type’s delightful heat, relishing the way Type’s walls close in on him, tighten so hard he can barely move anymore.

A couple more spasmodic thrusts as Tharn rides off his orgasm, and then he’s grinding to a halt and pulling out as gently as he can, before putting Type down carefully, mindful of his trembling (and possibly cramped) legs. Type’s still clutching at him with all he has, chest heaving against Tharn’s and forehead coming to rest in the crook of his neck while Tharn’s own head drops to Type’s shoulder. They stay like this, panting and wrapped in each other, until Type’s clenched fist comes into contact with Tharn’s arm, more to get his attention than to cause pain.

“I hate you, Tharn.”

“That means—”

“No. I just really hate you,” Type lifts his head to toss Tharn a glare, but his arms keep squeezing around him in unconcealed affection. “You’re the worst.”

“Mhm,” Tharn presses a quick kiss to Type’s jaw, then reaches out blindly to turn on the shower. In his head, he’s already coming up with a strategy for getting into Type’s (pajama) pants later. No more work-related thoughts for Type today, he’ll make sure of that. “Too bad you’re stuck with me until you’re old and wrinkly, I guess.” 

(This time around, Tharn’s hand is quick enough to wrap itself around Type’s fist before it can do any damage. Type only huffs in feigned displeasure as Tharn rubs his thumb over his knuckles and smiles.)

**Author's Note:**

> If you need me, I'll be hiding in shame @ mirror_b_a_l_l on twt.


End file.
